


come on over for dinner, we'll be so glad to see you

by lovebeyondmeasure



Series: CSFirstFest Ficlets [3]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: CSFirstFest, Future Fic, Gen, Post-The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:21:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23482345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebeyondmeasure/pseuds/lovebeyondmeasure
Summary: “Hello, Leonora,” Robin said, kissing the older woman’s cheek. Leonora allowed this, patting Robin’s shoulder.“Hello, Robin. Mr Strike, hello again,” she said in her flat way, but there was the suggestion of a smile around her pale blue eyes and thin lips; it was perhaps the most expressive Cormoran had ever seen her. “Come in, Dodo hasn’t stopped asking about you all day,” she said to Robin.Robin brings Cormoran along for dinner with the Quines.
Series: CSFirstFest Ficlets [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681525
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	come on over for dinner, we'll be so glad to see you

**Author's Note:**

> My final ficlet for #CSFirstFest revists some old friends; I thought it might be nice to see Leonora and Dodo in their post-trauma lives. I've ignored the rest of the prompts for this one, it's entirely Quine-focused.
> 
> Title from Company by Sondheim. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“I’m off,” Robin called through his half-open door. “Text me if anything comes up.”

“It’s only half-past four,” Cormoran called back, surprised. They’d both been pulling late nights for the past few weeks. 

“I know,” she replied, coming to stand in the door, leaning against the frame. “I’m going over to Leonora Quine’s for dinner, I could swear I told you.”

Cormoran blinked, surprised. He’d barely thought of the Quines in ages, too distracted to wonder about one-time clients, no matter how high-profile the case had been.

“You’re still in touch?” he asked instead. “Yes, that’s right. How are they?”

“Doing well, I think,” Robin said, winding her scarf around her neck. “Since they published the real _Bombyx Mori,_ Leonora’s had enough money coming in that she’s been able to send Dodo to classes… well, they ask after you. You’d probably be welcome to come along with me, if you’d like.”

Cormoran didn’t especially want to return to the Quine’s house, which he remembered as more than a bit run-down, neglected by an absent father and absent-minded mother. But there was something in Robin’s manner which suggested that she hoped he would say yes but expected him to say no, and he found himself agreeing to accompany Robin for dinner. She happily messaged Leonora while Cormoran got on his coat and gloves, wondering what he’d gotten himself into.

They made the journey to Southern Row in easy conversation, Robin updating him on several of their lower-priority cases which were being handled mainly by Hutchins and Barclay. She handled the bulk of their write-ups and client management, mainly by dint of being far better than he at the entire business. The ride passed quickly, and soon enough he and Robin were walking along the street he dimly remembered.

It had been winter during the Quine case, he recalled, as the wind bit into his face. The sensory experience was eerily similar as Robin led him to the gate of the Quine house. The gate was now hanging properly, instead of by one hinge, and had been repainted a cheerful bright blue, as had the front door. 

“That’s a memorable color,” he remarked aloud. 

Robin laughed as she undid the latch. “Leonora let Dodo pick it,” he said. “That girl loves bright colors, let me tell you.” 

Cormoran wondered if Robin’s red slacks had anything to do with that as she rang the bell. Leonora answered the door, blinking at them from behind her thick glasses, the same overlarge plastic frames he remembered. She looked different, though; less careworn, he thought, better rested perhaps. 

“Hello, Leonora,” Robin said, kissing the older woman’s cheek. Leonora allowed this, patting Robin’s shoulder. 

“Hello, Robin. Mr Strike, hello again,” she said in her flat way, but there was the suggestion of a smile around her pale blue eyes and thin lips; it was perhaps the most expressive Cormoran had ever seen her. “Come in, Dodo hasn’t stopped asking about you all day,” she said to Robin. 

“Hasn’t she?” Robin said, dimpling. She went right inside, clearly familiar with the small house. There was a shriek from the sitting room on the right, and Cormoran came around to see Orlando Quine flailing her arms happily, a veritable fountain of words coming from her mouth. She was pink and happy, a far cry from the shuffling, sallow girl Cormoran remembered. 

“I’m making tea,” Leonora said from beside him, in her factual way. “I’ll bring it in. I made a roast chicken for dinner.”

Before he could reply, she had slipped away, freeing Cormoran to take in the house, or more remarkably, the changes to it. 

Last time he had been here, he had only noticed the shabbiness, the dated fixtures and darkened corners. The house was unchanged in its fundamentals, but from his place standing in the narrow hall, it felt airier, brighter. He glanced to the left, Owen Quine’s erstwhile office, and saw that Owen’s things had been packed away into a small row of boxes lining one wall, and the room was in the process of being painted a warm yellow.

“Owen’s office,” Leonora said, coming back with a tea tray. 

“Oh,” Cormoran said, caught. “Yes, I was just remembering.”

“Mm,” Leonora said. From the sitting room, he could hear Robin asking encouraging questions of Orlando, who was chattering away like a little bird. “I sold off a lot of his stuff. Not much use for it anymore, and some of his fans paid more than it was worth. Don’t know what for, it’s not like his old books're different from the ones you could buy in a shop, but a fool and his money, you know.”

She, too, was unchanged in her fundamentals; still uncomprehending of sentimentality, still a bit bemused by other people. But Leonora Quine looked at the former office with eyes that seemed, to Cormoran’s own unsentimental gaze, brighter. 

“Kept some of it,” he replied, nodding towards the boxes. 

“Oh, yeah, that’s mostly old pictures and such,” she said. “Some drafts and things, unpublished works. But we’re going to turn this room into a playroom for Dodo. I let her pick the wall color.”

“She sounds happy,” Cormoran said, indicating the sitting room with his head. 

Leonora looked up at him. “I think so,” she said. “Owen’s last book sold quite well, you know, and since he’s not around to spend it all, I’ve been able to send Dodo out to half-day classes with others like her, you know, handicapped adults. She loves it, they go to parks and do painting and the like.”

Cormoran had a sudden, very clear memory of reading pages of Owen Quine’s manuscripts with doodles of flowers and birds on them in scrawling marker. “She likes art,” he said. 

“Loads and loads. I told her, once we get the room all set up, we can see about getting her a proper easel, like the artists on telly, and she started crying, she was so excited.”

With that, Leonora went into the sitting room, setting the tray down on the table. Cormoran followed her, looking around. The peeling wallpaper was the same, but the air of cramped shabbiness was missing, as were some of the pictures. He had a feeling the missing photos were ones that only Owen had liked; they had been replaced by framed pictures of Leonora and Orlando on a beach, both sunburnt a feverish pink, and some of what must have been Orlando’s art. 

He accepted a cup of tea from Robin, who had doctored it to his preferences; he took a sip, surprised by how happy he was at the changes that had been wrought to this house and its occupants in the months since he had last seen them.

“Dodo, do you remember Cormoran?” Robin was asking the girl, who had folded herself into a chair in a posture that seemed awkward to him but was clearly second-nature for her.

“Yes,” she said, to what seemed to be everyone’s surprise. “Your name is a giant.”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “The one from Jack and the Beanstalk.”

“Jack and the _Beanstalk?_ ” Orlando said, her voice going up in delight. “I saw that movie! With Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck and Goofy. And Minnie Mouse was a princess—”

Robin nodded along as Orlando described, in detail, the plot of the Disney adaptation of Jack and Beanstalk. Cormoran, drinking his tea, was impressed once more by Robin’s seemingly endless patience. Leonora seemed content to let them sit in silence, Orlando and Robin carrying the conversation.

From the kitchen, a timer went _ding_ slightly off-key, and Leonora nodded to herself. “Roast is done,” she said, setting aside her cup to stand. “Dodo, do you want to set the table?” 

“I am very good at setting the table,” Orlando said immediately to Robin. Robin nodded, rising to follow the Quines to the table. “My teacher says I’m very good at lining up all the forks and knives right. And the cups, I always get the cups down from the cupboard too. I’ll let you get them, though, because you’re the guest.”

Cormoran gulped down the last of his tea, glancing at Robin’s legs as they disappeared through the door. His eyes went back to the photos of Leonora and Orlando on the wall, the pair of them on the beach. Orlando’s grin engulfed her face; she was clutching a child’s plastic bucket and shovel set, wearing a one-piece swimsuit covered in gaudy flowers, and had sand all over her legs. Leonora, in her matronly swim top and a loose white skirt, had a half-smile on her face, an indulgent mother on holiday for the first time in what had likely been years.

He was suddenly filled with a warm glow of satisfaction. His memories of the Quine’s case were usually dominated by the gory horror of it, the twisting trail of deceit and betrayals; it was nice, he thought, to see this part of the aftermath as well. A mother and her daughter, sunburnt and smiling, living in a house no longer dominated by an aging author’s snubbed genius but by the sound of Orlando’s too-loud laughter. 

“No!” she was shrieking, giddily, “the fork goes on the _other_ side, Robin!”

Robin’s laughter joined Orlando’s, and Cormoran smiled. He’d forgotten that sometimes, on the other side of horror, happiness could still appear. He set his empty teacup on the tray and went to join the rest in the kitchen for dinner.


End file.
